“I wished I could kick-start my own heart
and make the emotions turn over.”
Neil
People say that life is like a rainbow, each color corresponding to a specific phase, a time span.
Mine has always been characterized by darkness. It was certainly no accident that the liar who gave birth to me called me Neil.
And then, to make matters worse, she’d added on the fucking surname of a man who wasn’t my father.
A man who beat me and treated me like a cuckoo in the nest, a slimy insect. A man who thought I was some insane freak and never showed me an ounce of human empathy.
And now I knew why.
“Fuck you!” That was my new daily mantra against life, against my mother, against William, against John, and against Judith. Even against Selene, whom I’d had to let go so she could be happy far away from me.
I’d stopped giving a shit about other people. Stopped putting my family first and stopped privileging their problems over my own. I’d stopped trying to be better, to sand down my rough edges for the benefit of others. For the benefit of Selene. I’d stopped chasing after people, seeking their acceptance.
I quit chasing the world, and, yes, that meant I stayed behind. But it also meant I stayed myself.
My life was a prison from which no one could free me.
I’d quit believing in anything beautiful. I’d snuffed out my last little lights of hope the same day I was supposed to snuff out my birthday candles.
Was I angry? Probably always would be.
Was I disillusioned? No, I was worse.
I was embittered and disgusted.
The heavy bag swung back and forth with my violent blows. I’d gotten back into training, and I did it constantly. Every morning I got up with the sun and worked out my tension that way. The chains tensed as they supported the weight of the relentlessly jerking bag. I alternated hooks, uppercuts, and jabs, fast and sure.
Drops of sweat slid down my neck to my bare chest; all my muscles were tensed and burning.
Adrenaline pulsed in my veins, swamping my brain, making it impossible to think clearly.
My black sweatpants were plastered to my legs, my hair kept irritatingly sticking to my forehead, and my knuckles were on fire because I hadn’t worn gloves. Just white elastic wraps that were now stained from the deep tears I was putting in the skin there.
I could smell the sharp scent of the blood, and I liked it.
It made me feel alive, dirty, and satisfied.
“Is it normal for you to make this kind of racket first thing in the morning every morning, Miller?” Megan’s drowsy voice made me stop. I steadied the bag with both hands and turned to look calmly at her. I looked first at her long, bare legs and then at her bountiful breasts protruding from under my white sweatshirt, which barely covered her crotch.
Her fuchsia thong was visible.
“I don’t know. Is it normal for you to wear my fucking sweater when you know damn well I don’t want you to?” I snapped irritably, glaring at her sleepy face, her swollen lips, and her still half-closed green eyes.
“I didn’t get a chance to do laundry yesterday, and your sweater was clean and smelled like… Whatever, I wore it. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”She shrugged and walked past me to the kitchen with a familiar arrogant sway to that little ass.
“Take it off, Megan, before you piss me off!” I threatened her sternly. She sat down on a stool, letting the fabric of the sweater ride up on her hips and showing me that scrap of panties again. I swallowed hard.
“Get as pissed as you want. I’m not scared of you,” she grumbled indifferently before taking a bite of Nutella toast. I still hadn’t figured out how she could eat that crap and still have that body.
It is a fuckable body,I thought.
That was exactly the word for it: fuckable.
